


Costly

by hikikomochi



Category: Constantine (Comic), Constantine (TV), Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), Hellblazer
Genre: Curses, Gen, Occult, Supernatural Elements, Voodoo, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 21:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11388339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikikomochi/pseuds/hikikomochi
Summary: With light as tiny as a spark of flame from his lighter, he paces closer. He can make out a small wooden hut and voices of people, too many to fit, chanting. Jesus, it's so damn hot out here. The chants get oddly quieter the more he approached the hut. And soon they scatter, turning into whispers as the whole bayou seemingly stops its noises. John starts to have a coughing fit. The bloody heat is suffocating.





	Costly

**Author's Note:**

> A solo for my Constantine RP (@Exardescit on twitter) that's way too long. Enjoy.

John Constantine is familiar with a few bits and pieces of African magic. He could recognise it from the body of a wealthy CEO of a company that sells luxurious cars, who was found dead in mysterious circumstances. Burnt to the point of melting in a room that didn't look like it had a spot of fire. It was his daughter, Heloise, that managed to get a hold of the occult detective. Of course it had to be Voodoo. How can it _not_ be down in New Orleans? 

The trickiest thing about Voodoo is, well like everything in the occult, there's always a price to pay. Only a selected few would misuse the darker half of Voodoo and succeed. And in this ancient branch of black magic, success is pricey.

The damp, hot air forces John to take his coat off and carry it around. Christ, even the night is hot as shite in this godforsaken city. Lively, at least. Music blares behind the Brit as he makes his way towards the swampy forest. He was given a tip by a local oddities shop clerk, that a hut was often seen in the depths of the bayou. Some folks even heard chanting coming out of it. Some sort of ritual is going down for sure.

Whoever planted the curse on Heloise's father has to be convinced to stop before they could reach the rest of the family. Heloise, her younger sister, and her step mum. John and his awful curiosity can't help but wonder why. Why would this person curse this man, who's probably had never acknowledged black magic at all? Maybe it's petty revenge, or perhaps it's just a magical mishap. An unlucky coincidence. Or it's Voodoo for hire, which is getting eerily popular for comfort.

"Aw, piss." His flashlight flickers its last light as John steps further into the bayou. "Come on you piece of shite."

As he shakes the thing in the hope of getting it to work again, John finally sees what he couldn't in the light. A faint glow of campfire from a distance. Is it getting hotter? Bloody hell. John loosens already loose tie and unbuttons two more buttons on his shirt. He hates being drenched by his own sweat. It's fucking disgusting.

With light as tiny as a spark of flame from his lighter, he paces closer. He can make out a small wooden hut and voices of people, too many to fit, chanting. Jesus, it's so damn hot out here. The chants get oddly quieter the more he approached the hut. And soon they scatter, turning into whispers as the whole bayou seemingly stops its noises. John starts to have a coughing fit. The bloody heat is suffocating.

"Alright, don't be a little bitch and show yourself." He says upon reaching the campfire and hut, voice slightly dry.

The figure in front of him stands freakishly tall. Shaded by the blackness inside the hut, John can only make out what's illuminated by the campfire outside, which isn't even enough to tell what sort of creature it is. Something's dribbling down it, almost like water but thicker. It has long limbs and a weirdly shaped head for sure, its eyes are illuminating its face slightly.

"John Constantine." It says, voice as coarse as sandpaper.

"You what?" John barely retorts.

"Free us. Free yourself."

"Why do you tossers have to be so damn cryptic all the time?" John decides to let himself sit, leaning to a nearby tree. He's beginning to think it isn't the weather that's boiling him. "Alright, I'll bite. Free you from who?"

 "Amateur."

 John is silent, unsure if his ears are deceiving him. "Sorry, _what?_ "

 

\--

A man whistles a joyous tune as he holds a needle carefully, carving a scar on a tiny clay torso.

_Knock. Knock._

He stops. Sighing, he puts his things down and heads for the door.

**_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._ **

"Hold your horses, I'm a'coming," he says as he unlocks his door.

"'Allo," John greets the moment the door is opened, shirt dampened with his sweat. "I'm looking for the Voodoo shaman in the premises."

"I'm the man, but I'm a little busy at the mo--"

John's fist collides with the shaman's jaw, sending him right to the creaky floor of his house. Boy, John can really send a good punch when he's in a pissy mood. He steps over the shaman, who's curled up in pain.

"Now where oh bloody where did you put my tiny self-- Jesus _fuckin'_ Christ."

A clay doll hangs above a circle of lit candles, held only by a filmsy piece of string. A strand of blonde hair is stuck to it by sellotape, which has 'John Constantine' written on it with a marker. A few other clay dolls are hung similarly a distance away from Constantine's, many are scattered and piled on the table with pins or nails stuck on various parts of the clay bodies. John moves a step back upon realising he's almost stepped on one. In fact, several dolls are on the floor as well and not a lot of them have all of their four limbs. It's like they're left there to rot.

"Holy shit, I know you," the shaman says as he follows behind, not minding the bruise John gave him. "You're John freakin' Constantine, ain't ya?"

Carefully. Very, very carefully, John starts to tip toe towards the clay version of himself. Once he's gotten close enough, he snatches it away from the flames. He could feel the heat disappearing, and the curse painfully lifting away as he tears the label of his name.

"Oh yeah, shit. Sorry 'bout that, man. Some lady came in here and hired me to burn you. Apparently it's 'cause you were getting dangerously close to figuring out who killed her husband or something. But I couldn't do it 'cause like, you're John Constantine! You're like my inspiration, man. I can't believe I caught your attention!"

"Wait, don't--"

The shaman accidentally steps on one clay figure, its name and piece of hair still stuck on. John's eyes widen in surprise and disbelief. Somewhere out there, an actual living human being would be mysteriously flattened. The thought of a human being squashed made John a bit sick.

"Whoops. Don't worry about it, man. Happens all the time."

Oh and John thought he was pissed before. "Do you not _realise_ what you've done?"

"Ruined my new shoe? Heh." He scrapes the clay remains on his shoe on a nearby mat. John scowls, the thought of what's happening to the actual person the doll is of sickens him further.

"You stupid son of a cunt. You're killing people. You're hurting them for God knows how long you took to pile this bloody mess up. Fuckin' hell. Jesus Christ," John mutters as he runs a hand through his hair.

"A lot of people do this 'round this neighborhood, Johnny. Can I call you Johnny?"

"Voodoo for hire? Yeah. Do you know what happens after they've finished having a go poking these dolls with wee needles? Not /this/ bollocks." He opens his arms, referring to the entire room. "Do you want to know _why_ I'm here, you sick piece of shite? 'Cause morons like you don't finish things properly."

"You lost me there, Johnny."

Again, very carefully, John tiptoes back to the entrance. "The /things/ that help you with this need to be released, thanked, and offered something as payment. Should've read the Voodoo guidebook, yeah? One came to me. This has gone for too long and they've got nothing in return, it said. So um, _congrats,_ dickhead. You've pissed them off proper."

The shaman seems dazed, not knowing of what to say or do. "Well uh, how do I fix this? What can I do to make it up?"

"Should've thought of _that_ from the start, yeah?"

"I'll-- Okay, I'll stop all the curses. All of them! No matter how long it takes." The shaman kneels down and starts picking up the dolls on the floor, shaken and panicked.

"Won't take the debt off of you, mate. I fuckin' _wish_ this bollocks was that easy." John watches him from the doorway.

"You don't know that!" He rushes, less careful than John in that room. When he stands up, his shoulder bumps against the table all the candles are on. Flames and wax lands on the old wooden floor, and seconds later the fire spreads. "You don't know _everything,_ Constantine!"

"You stupid git!" John takes a step back before running to the rescue. The shaman is busy collecting the dolls and ripping their sellotapes to notice the fire growing bigger around him. John can't give two shits about the arsehole who started this, he starts collecting as much dolls as he can carry before the fire can touch them.

"Wait-- wait, Constantine, where did you go?" The shaman looks to his left and right. All he sees is fire. Fire and a line of creatures he'a never seen before. Freakishly tall goopy, muddy dark skinned creatures with long limbs and the horns of the wilderbeast. He attempts to run, but all is already consumed by the fire. Behind these demons are the people he's damned. They stare at him with eyes glowing with anger and sorrow. There are hundreds of undeserving souls and they're cracking, crumbling to ceramic bits as clay would touched with fire. He shouts for mercy at the horrifying sight as he melts among them. Hellfire his fate. The payment for his debt.

Black smoke escapes from the windows. Sounds of firetrucks filled the entire street, waking the neighbourhood. John watches as the house slowly burns down, arms a bit busy to take the pack of cigarettes he's got in his coat. He managed to only save a handful of people, unfortunately the others are forced to burn with the shaman that damned them for eternity. Sighing, John takes a seat on the sidewalk, cradling the clay dolls as he mourns for the rest.

The price for black magic is always costly. He wonders if that's why he could never save everyone.


End file.
